


Resurrection

by Vertiga



Series: Flynt Coal the Cat [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Angst, Crucifixion, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Heavy Angst, Immortality, Temporary Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortal Fake AH Crew. Ryan gets cocky, gets captured, and has no way out. His crew don't know where he is, and the Vagos don't take kindly to false gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurrection

It didn’t take long for word to spread that bullets and knives wouldn’t stop the Fake AH for more than a few minutes. When it was proven that bombs wouldn’t either, most of the rival gangs made the wise decision to back off, and for several years the untouchable Fake AH reigned supreme. Ramsey’s crew of freaks could be the kings of Los Santos if they wanted, and it made little difference to the small timers, so long as they kept out of the way.

However, there are exceptions to every rule, and to some, their immortality was both an insult and a challenge. Not being able to kill the Fake AH just encouraged the worst of their foes to get creative.

Ryan shouldn’t have been on the East Side alone. It was Vagos territory, always had been, but it was hard to maintain proper caution when he’d died four times in the last month and shaken it off every time. Perhaps he was even hoping for something to happen. 

He’d found that much of the thrill had gone out of life after he realised how few consequences there were for screwing up, and the only solution was to be more reckless than ever. Jack would have his head for it, but walking into enemy territory, unmasked and alone, was pretty much the only way he could think of to stave off terminal boredom.

Still, old observation habits died hard, and he couldn’t fail to notice the growing number of yellow clad men on the streets, popping out of run-down buildings as he passed and lurking in the open mouths of garages. 

He was in the heart of Rancho, skin crawling with the weight of hostile eyes, when two beaten up black Tornadoes screeched to a halt in his path, blocking the street. Four Hispanic youths leapt over the open sides of the cars, yellow bandanas over their faces and pistols in their hands.

Ryan stopped, feet planted and hands loose at his sides. There was a sawn-off shotgun holstered under his leather jacket, but he didn’t bother going for it. He wasn’t feeling threatened, his heart just barely stirring in interest at the sight of the armed blockade.

‘You shouldn’t be here, ese,’ the heavy-set leader of the Vagos called out, pointing his pistol at Ryan’s chest.

Ryan smiled, spreading his hands wide like a realtor showing off a grand house. ‘I’m just walking. It’s such a pleasant neighbourhood, how could I resist?’

It wasn’t entirely a taunt. The cramped projects were uninviting, but the graffiti was constantly changing and Ryan found the shifting mix of murals and gang tags fascinating. People without voices wrote on the walls and made the city itself speak for them.

Of course, his genuine interest was lost on people predisposed to hate Ramsey’s Vagabond.

‘Hows about you fuck off back to your penthouse before we fuck you up?’ the tallest of the men suggested, shaking the pistol in his hand. It wasn’t an effective threat – he was only throwing off his own aim.

Ryan’s grin widened. He half turned, waving at the dozen Vagos who had closed in behind him.

‘The route back seems unfriendly, but I’ll make my own way forward, if you’ll clear the road.’

‘Fuck you, puto.’

Ryan’s grin vanished in an instant. Whatever his preferences, he was damn sure it was none of their business. ‘Bet you’d love to, wouldn’t you? So quick to jump to calling me a fag, it’s clear what’s on your mind all the time. Sure I’m not too old for you, though?’

The tall man snarled a curse and pulled the trigger.

The bullet felt like a punch in the gut, sending Ryan into a half-crouch out of sheer instinct. It hurt. That was the bitch of immortality – everything still hurt, whether it killed them or not. Even with all his experience of getting shot, it took a moment for Ryan to straighten up, breathing hard and shallow, his bloody left hand clenched against the wound.

The Vagos were frozen, watching him with wary eyes, waiting to see what the wounded tiger in their midst would do.

‘That’s not a no,’ he pointed out, grinning with all his teeth.

To his delight, the man lunged forward, too incensed to just shoot him again. Even injured, Ryan was faster than he would ever be. It was a genuine pleasure to intercept the wild punch with one hand, taking his other hand away from his side long enough to leave a bloody print on the man’s sleeve as he broke his wrist.

The man cried out, gun dropping from nerveless fingers, and Ryan caught it before it could fall, turning it effortlessly and pressing it under his attacker’s jaw. A brief squeeze of the trigger sent a bullet through his skull, and his shout cut off in a gunshot and a spray of blood and brain.

The sound of the body hitting the floor was very loud in the shock-silent street.

Ryan looked around at the stunned Vagos and laughed, a breathy giggle at odds with his stature, the stolen gun hanging loosely in his right hand while the other went protectively back to his side.

The sound seemed to break one of the men out of his stupor, and he yelled in rage, making to lunge at Ryan.

‘¡No seas güey!’ his friend snapped, throwing an arm across his chest to hold him back.

Ryan only giggled again. His guts hurt like hell, and he was surrounded on all sides by men who most definitely hated him, but at least he wasn’t bored.

He was just about to suggest once again that they let him through when something white-hot hit him in the back. He dropped the gun, staggered and fell, muscles seized solid, pain dancing through his nerves. 

He was vaguely aware, as he twitched and shuddered on the road, that one of the men at his back must have pulled a taser. It was annoying how effective the weapon was, harder to shake off than bullets, and not likely to kill him and give him the chance to come back healed.

The Vagos closed in, cautious despite his helplessness, but when it became clear that Ryan couldn’t overcome the electricity coursing through him, their stocky leader crouched close to his face.

‘You think you are a god, Vagabond. We do not like this blasphemy, not at all. But if you wish to challenge God, you must prove yourself.’

Ryan couldn’t keep his eyes from jittering in their sockets, and the leader’s masked face was a yellow blur as he spoke. He didn’t need to see clearly to understand that he was suddenly in very real trouble. The glee in the man’s voice was warning enough.

‘If you want to be God, we will first make you Jesus.’

He stood and stepped back, getting leverage for a good kick. His boot smashed full-force into Ryan’s face, and the world exploded into darkness.

~

Ryan woke too hot, raging thirst leaving his throat dry and sore. His head didn’t hurt as he had expected, and the pain in his guts was gone, and he realised he must have died from the bullet wound and come back, rather than simply being unconscious.

 _Assholes_ , he thought to himself, expecting that the Vagos had dumped his body out in the sun somewhere. The powerful thirst and the light burning through his closed eyelids suggested as much.

He could feel a hot breeze blowing against his skin, and it occurred to him that he felt uncommonly light. He shouldn’t feel the wind through his jacket.

 _They better not have stolen my fucking clothes,_ he thought, and tried to roll over, wanting to turn away from the sun before he opened his sensitive eyes. He stopped short, his body held firm at wrists and ankles. 

His eyes shot open, and when the glare of the sun died away he could see his arm stretched out and tied down to a thick plank of wood. Turning his head revealed that his other arm was in the same position, and lifting his upper body as far as he could manage proved that his ankles were tied the same way. His clothes and boots were gone, only his grey underwear remaining. Apparently they really had stolen his clothes.

 _They seriously tied me to a fucking cross lying in the desert?_ he thought, a giggle escaping him at the absurdity of the situation. The thirst was unpleasant, but he was confident that he could wriggle out of the ropes before dehydration caused him any real trouble. And no matter how far from Los Santos they had dumped him, he’d make it back eventually.

He began working his wrists in the ropes, letting them chafe his skin raw in exchange for gradually loosening the knots.

 _Geoff’s gonna laugh himself sick when I tell him about this pseudo-religious bullshit,_ he thought, then froze at the sound of multiple car doors slamming one after another.

The cars were somewhere behind him, where he couldn’t twist to look, but there were many sets of footsteps crunching toward him across the packed sand.

He recognised the leader of the Vagos a moment before he registered the hammer in his beefy hand. The significance of the tool struck him just as the Vagos reached him, and he struggled wildly, trying to free his hands before he lost the chance.

The heavy weight of a boot on his wrist told him that his time was up, and things were about to get very, very unpleasant.

'You are not Jesus yet, cabrón. We did not want you to miss this.'

'Fuck you,' Ryan spat, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of his panic.

The leader only laughed, crouching down to show him a thick, heavy steel nail with a flat head. It looked like it could hold together a barn, and Ryan's stomach flipped to think of how it would feel in his flesh.

'Hold his head, I want him to see,' the leader said, and Ryan's head was grabbed between rough hands, ragged fingernails digging into his cheeks as he tried to turn away.

The point of the nail was cold against the base of his hand, nestling between his bones, and his fingers curled instinctively, as if he could flex the dreaded thing away from his skin.

There was a frozen moment as the Vagos leader stared down at him, savouring the fear in his eyes. Then he swung the hammer and drove the nail through Ryan's wrist in two hard strikes.

The pain was like an explosion, a breathless instant passing before it hit him. Then Ryan was screaming, thrashing in his bonds despite how it pained him to move his arm.  
The first burst of pain didn't die away for an eternity, leaving Ryan shaking and cold when he finally came back to himself.

The gathered Vagos were watching him, laughing amongst themselves at one of the mighty Fake AH brought low, but he couldn't bring himself to give a damn about lost dignity.  
A few moments later his head was forced to the other side and the grisly process was repeated, pinning him out like a poisoned butterfly as he thrashed and screamed.

'So much noise, ese,' one of the Vagos said, laughing as Ryan tried to catch his breath. 'I am glad we brought you so far from anyone who could hear.'

Ryan tried to muster some reply, but no coherent thought could get past the fear and pain except a jumble of "fuck you fuck you help me oh god fuck you!"

'Nothing to say?' the leader asked, bending close. The grin on his face was terrible, a sadistic mockery of pure happiness.

Ryan gathered himself as much as he could and spat, not caring that most of the spittle landed back on his own face. It was worth it for whatever he could land on his enemy.

The watching men cursed at him as their leader jerked back, but Ryan doubted there was much they could do which would be worse than what they had already planned. It was far, far too late to worry about making them angry.

'You have no manners, Vagabond,' the leader said, icily. 'Perhaps you will have time to learn some, out here.'

He vanished from Ryan's view, and a moment later Ryan felt hands on his ankles, loosening the ropes just enough to slide his legs up, forcing them to bend until he was almost crouched. 

He had a vivid, horrible flashback to the crucifixes of long-ago catholic school and knew exactly what they were doing. Forcing his legs to stay bent would make it a thousand times harder and more painful to support his own weight.

He tried his best to kick them away, but there were too many hands and he had no leverage to work with. He felt the chill point of a nail for an instant before the blinding agony of having it forced through his left foot swept all thought away. The second wave of pain when his right foot was nailed down was only a brief peak in the endless sea that had closed over him.

He couldn't have said how long he writhed, animal noises of pain forcing themselves through gritted teeth, but once again he came back to himself to the sound of laughter.

He glared at the Vagos through a thick blur of tears, hating them with all the strength he could muster. All his thrashing hadn't budged the nails an inch, and Ryan had already realised that he would never get enough leverage to get free. He would be stuck until someone pulled out the nails, and it didn't seem likely that the Vagos would ever do so. They were too delighted with their game. 

His only, fervent hope was that someone not in the gang had seen their confrontation in the street and told his friends.

'You almost look the part now,' the leader said, as his crew cut away the ropes, leaving only the nails holding Ryan down. He clicked his fingers and one of his crew went back to the cars, returning quickly with what looked like a slender coil of razor wire in his hands.

'We could not find thorns for you,' the leader said, taking the vicious wire with care. 'But you are a modern man, Vagabond. You can make do with this, I think.'

He held the twisted wire aloft for a moment, then forced it onto Ryan's head like a crown.

The angled blades cut through his skin like it was nothing, sending blood pouring across his scalp and down the back of his neck, pooling on the cross below his head. In comparison to the nails in his limbs the pain barely registered, but the violation was a shock in itself. The deliberate cruelty of it made Ryan sick as much as the feeling of sharp metal scraping against the bone of his skull.

He closed his eyes and fought nausea, trying to accept the crown and ignore it. He feared that it would send him mad if he let himself dwell on the assault.

'You are not so quick with the clever words any more, Vagabond,' the leader said, so close that Ryan could smell the sour alcohol on his breath. 'I am disappointed.'

Ryan couldn't respond, still fighting with his own mind.

He felt the cross begin to shift as the Vagos lifted it up and tilted it into a waiting hole in the packed sand. The feeling of his weight being put on his nailed limbs forced a groan between his teeth. It turned into a scream at the jolt of the cross settling into the sand.

He opened his eyes and saw the gang gathered a good six feet below his bleeding feet, looking up at their modern-day Jesus and laughing fit to burst. One of them had fetched a case of beer from his car and was passing out the bottles.

Ryan couldn't keep watching them for long. He quickly found that the effort of keeping his weight on his feet so he could breathe took up most of his attention.

He was in good shape, but the unnatural flex of his knees meant that his muscles burned within minutes. He could feel his thighs trembling, and realised that he wouldn't be able to keep his weight off his arms for long.

When his legs gave out, the sudden drop yanked his arms in their sockets. His wrists, elbows and shoulders gave out in a series of horrible jolts, joints pulling free with a cascade of popping, cracking sounds that Ryan knew would haunt him forever. The pain that followed was cold and sickening, acid roiling in his gut. If his abdomen hadn't been so unnaturally stretched, he was sure he would have thrown up. He almost wished he could, just for the chance to try and vomit on his tormentors.

The Vagos had greeted his dislocating arms and high, thin sounds of pain with a round of cheering and a mocking toast. Ryan wanted to curse them all but he couldn't. He couldn't even care about their callousness any longer, the position of his body making breathing a much more urgent concern.

Hanging by his ruined arms left his ribs pulled out, making it impossible to exhale and get a fresh lungful of air. The only way to breathe was to push himself up with his feet, causing a fresh wave of hideous pain as he flexed around the nails. Every push upwards was fiery agony, and every drop back down brought another wave of sick, cold pain from his mangled arms.

Even forcing himself to move only brought him half a lungful of fresh air, and Ryan could feel himself growing dizzy, pressure building in his head until the terrible crown seemed to be cutting directly into his brain. 

He hadn't thought about crucifixion since school, and even when he had, he'd never expected breathing to be so hard. It was exhausting to fight through the pain just for a meagre breath of air, and knowing that even death would bring but a passing relief made the idea of suffocating seem somehow worse than it would have otherwise. He could feel his heart rabbiting in his chest, fear and a desperate need for air sending him into a panic.

He couldn't have said how long it took for his careful breaths to turn into short, sharp movements and ragged panting, but it felt like hours. His lungs felt wet and heavy, an unnatural weight in his chest, and he couldn't keep himself moving fast enough to answer his body's cries for air. It felt like his heart was an engine in overspeed, running itself ragged to try and give his screaming muscles oxygen that just wasn't there. 

He knew what had to happen, knew something had to give, and it wasn't a surprise when there was a sudden, tearing pain in his chest. His heart had torn itself open, and he felt blood filling his lungs. In the moments before blackness swamped him, Ryan could only dread going through the same appalling process again.

~

Sure enough, a few minutes later his jolting, gasping return to life was greeted by a chorus of mocking cheers from his audience. His body was refreshed by the reset, granting him fresh strength in his legs, but his fixed position had stopped his dislocated arms from healing. The bleeding wounds of the nails and the crown had also remained, making his return to life a moment of pure, searing torment.

It wasn't long before his legs tired, and the hideous experience of trying not to suffocate started all over again. Ryan looked down at his captors, hoping for a single face among them which showed signs of sympathy, one man who might eventually cut him down. He found no one. 

Tears rolling down his cheeks, he resigned himself to going through the same awful cycle again and again. Even if his friends knew he was missing, there was almost no chance of them finding him in the empty desert. Ryan was utterly alone with his enemies, and they were delighted by his suffering.

~

After watching him die and come gasping back to life all day, the Vagos finally seemed to grow bored with his torment. Ryan had a brief moment of hope that they would free him, but it was quickly dashed. 

As a last act of contempt, the Vagos got in their cars and drove in jubilant circles around the base of his cross, honking their horns, filling the air with thick, sandy dust that only added to his struggle. Coughing felt like tearing off his arms, flaying the muscles from his ribs. He hung in too-familiar agony, exhausted and unable to even haul himself up to breathe out, suffocating all over again, his eyes filled with tears and burning sand. The pain in his head reached its peak, black swallowing his vision as his brain cried out for oxygen. 

Ryan suffocated before he could even reach the later stages he had endured before, and when he jerked back to life again, the desert was deserted. Only the tire tracks and empty beer bottles in the dust proved that anyone had been there at all.

He already knew he couldn't get enough leverage to pull himself free of the cruel nails through his limbs. He was helpless, left alone to suffer and die over and over again, the little burst of energy he was granted on each return quickly squandered in struggling to breathe. There was no sign of life in any direction that he could see, and there was little chance that his friends would ever find him.

For the first time, Ryan wished he had never found Flynt Coal. He wished he could really die. Unless whatever strange force had given the crew immortality took pity on him, he would spend the rest of his life in agony, dying every few hours only to return to the same hell. The dry heat of the desert would keep the wooden cross from rotting for hundreds of years, so there was no chance of escaping by waiting for it to decay. There was no way out.

He resolved then not to fight. Without hope, there was no point in forcing himself to move, to keep breathing until his heart gave out. Better to suffocate quickly and spend as much time dead as he could.

Tears wet on his face, he went limp against the cross, accepting the screaming stretch of his ruined wrists and shoulders, the biting cramp in his bent legs. He let the pain wash through him, not even bothering to try and deepen the shallow gasps that were all his flexed ribs could manage. His head swam, pressure building behind his eyes, and within a few minutes he had lost consciousness again.

~

The days passed slowly, sun and stars jumping across the sky each time he slipped into unconsciousness and death for a blessed few minutes. Every return was a curse, pain unrelenting, his body pinned and unable to let him heal. 

The first shock of agony was the worst every time, the instinctive jerk as he woke dragging at the nails in his hands and feet, pulling the loose joints of his arms. There was always a moment of confusion before he remembered what was happening, and the loss of hope felt like a knife in his very soul every time. Countless times, Ryan died with tears on his face from more than simple pain. 

The nights were the worst, the brilliant stars too distant to offer any comfort, and he whined through his teeth at the cold, every shiver sending shocks through his abused nerves. Even the desperate thirst of the burning days was easier to bear.

He couldn't maintain focus for long, the bone-deep panic of suffocation stealing his thoughts over and over again, but for a few moments after each return he was clear headed. He had time in those stolen increments to regret every choice which had led him to his fate. He missed his friends and his cat with a deep and enduring pain, wishing over and over again that they would somehow find him, hoping that none of them were as reckless with their immortality as he had been.

He wondered if they knew he was missing, rather than off on some private mission. The crew all had their own personal projects, and it might have been days before they even thought to call him. 

Wherever his phone was, he doubted anyone would have picked up. There was probably a string of increasingly salty messages from Geoff in his voicemail, probably a handful of texts from Ray inviting him to play Halo, probably any number of dumb, drunk messages from Gavin, slurred questions about space and science that would have made Ryan think even as he rolled his eyes at the stupid phrasing. In the aching silence of the desert, he would have given anything to listen to those messages. 

His hands ached and burned, flexing involuntarily against the nails that pinned his wrists, and he would have given anything to feel soft cat fur against his seeking fingertips. Touching nothing but the sandy wind was gradually grinding him down, and he wondered if his fingerprints would eventually wear away completely.

Keeping track of the endless deaths and terrible returns to life was beyond him. Even keeping count of the passing days and nights was impossible after a while. Ryan felt as though he was dissolving, blowing away with the dry wind, less of him returning every time. Letting his mind shut down was the only defence he had.

~

After an uncountable age, he gasped back to life and heard the rumble of an engine, distant but growing nearer. 

For the first time in days he raised his head, looking out over the sand and bare scrub, wondering with dull horror what possible torment the Vagos had devised during their long absence. It took him precious time to make out the shape of the approaching car, black and green paint gleaming in the sun. When he finally focused, the familiar bulk of the Roosevelt swam into view, Gavin's lanky frame hanging off the right side.

It had to be a hallucination. There was no way for them to find him, they weren't coming for him, but for the first time since the Vagos had left Ryan forced himself to try and live a little longer. After so long alone, wishing for his friends, he didn't want to lose sight of the Roosevelt for as long as the vision lasted.

He heaved himself up against the cross, legs and arms screaming, and deliberately breathed out for the first time in days. When he dropped again the car didn't disappear with the sudden in-rush of oxygen, so he forced himself to do it again. The rumble of the engine only grew closer, so familiar that the sound brought tears to his eyes, and he fought to keep breathing again and again, watching the Roosevelt streak across the desert toward him. 

His lungs felt wet, his heart beating like a bird in his ribcage, but the car was still there. It was so close that he could see Michael at the wheel, his face set in fury, and Geoff with his knuckles clenched white on the dashboard beside him.

Michael didn't stop, steering the Roosevelt right at the base of the cross, Gavin screaming as they came, and there was a moment of juddering impact, wood splintering against armoured metal.

Then Ryan was falling, one arm of the cross striking the ground and sending agony ripping through him. His left hand tore free of the nail that had pinned it for so long, bone and tendon destroyed by the sudden wrenching crash. He screamed, feeling blood spill down his chin as his dry lips cracked, then his cry cut off as the cross tipped backwards, finally coming to rest flat on the sand with a thud that knocked the breath out of him.

He heard shouting as he lay, stunned and struggling for air, and suddenly his friends were gathered around him, their bodies blocking out the cruel sun.

'Jesus Christ Ryan!'

'What the fuck? What the FUCK?'

'Give me some space, guys,' Jack ordered, pulling them back and kneeling beside him. The bulk of a well-stocked first aid kit hung at her side, but she didn't open it, focussed instead on the thick nail through his right wrist.

'Michael, get me the claw hammer out of the trunk,' she said.

'This is so fucking fucked up,' the fiery red-head declared, but he got off his knees and stormed off to get the tool.

'Can you hear me?' Geoff asked, crouching by Ryan's head and carefully touching his forehead below the cruel line of the crown.

'Yeah,' Ryan croaked out.

'Thank fucking god. We didn't know where you were, Ryan, I swear. We came for you as soon as we could.'

There was fear and regret in his voice, and tears welled in Ryan's eyes to hear that they had cared. He had been alone so, so long.

'Kill me,' he croaked, turning his head into Geoff's palm.

'What? You've been dying for weeks, you bloody idiot!' Gavin shouted, outraged at the idea.

'Shut up Gavin, he's right,' Jack said. 'He couldn't get off the cross, couldn't heal, but if we pull the nails and then kill him he'll come back healed.'

'Physically, at least,' Ray said, and Ryan was so grateful that their clever sniper had thought it through, had worked out that the physical injuries were nothing in comparison to the mental torment Ryan had suffered. If they were going to expect him to be fine as soon as his body looked well again, he wouldn't have been able to cope.

Michael slapped the claw hammer into Jack's waiting palm and stepped back to pace, too angry to stand still.

'I'll work fast, I promise,' Jack said. 'The nails and the - Jesus fucking Christ - the crown will be gone when you wake up.'

Ryan understood, with a crushing wave of gratitude, that she meant to kill him before she tried to pull him free. After so much pain, the idea of their mercy was almost more than he could bear.

'Geoff?' Jack said, setting herself at his ankles, ready to pull the first nail.

Geoff nodded, his sleepy eyes heavy with his task, and pulled the pistol from under his jacket.

'It's alright, Ryan,' he said softly, turning Ryan's head with careful fingers, nudging the barrel gently under his jaw, angling for a clean kill. 'We're here, and we're not leaving.'  
Ryan was halfway through a wet, shallow breath when Geoff pulled the trigger.

~

He woke warm and comfortable, wrapped in soft cloth, rocking gently with the motion of the car. For the first time in far too long he was in no pain. His joints had reset, his lungs were clear, and the weeping wounds of the nails had healed over. 

His arms were crossed against his chest under the blanket, and it was amazing how good that simple contact with his own skin felt after so long spread out like a pinned butterfly. Gentle fingers were carding through his sweat and blood soaked hair, careless of the filth, and he realised that his head was pillowed on Jack's thigh, her hand soothing him.

When he stirred, her hand stilled, letting him roll to the side and look up at her.

'We couldn't do much about the dirt,' she said quietly. 'We'll get you into a bath when we get home.'

Ryan nodded, his throat still dry. He was exhausted, shaky and disconnected despite the reset that had healed him.

'Want some water?' Geoff asked, leaning back from the front seat and offering him a fresh bottle.

Ryan sat up and took it gratefully, twisting the cap slowly, as though re-learning how to make his fingers work. Jack watched him do it, but she had the sense not to try and take the bottle to open it for him.

The first sip of water was the sweetest, most heavenly thing he had ever experienced. Better than being free of pain, better than his friends finding him despite insurmountable odds. If Gavin hadn't been exaggerating, it had been weeks since the Vagos nailed him up in the hot sun, and despite repeated resets, his body was desperate for water.

He finished the bottle before he knew what he was doing, spilling water down his bare chest as he gulped greedily, almost choking himself on it. The water wasn't chilled, just short of lukewarm, and it felt perfect in his stomach.

Geoff didn't say anything about his lack of grace, just wordlessly offered him a second bottle. 

He made an effort to drink it more slowly than the first, holding each gulp in his mouth as he looked out of the windows. His view was mostly blocked by Ray standing on one side and Gavin on the other, and that was good, after so long under the empty sky. He was literally surrounded by them.

'How did you find me?' he asked, when the water had soaked some life back into his tongue.

Michael swore viciously, his hands tightening on the wheel, and Geoff scowled.

'One of Lindsay's lot heard a rumour about the Vagos having a little play-date in the desert with the Fake AH and started putting the pieces together a couple of weeks ago. It took far too long to get any proper information, and even longer to force your actual coordinates out of one of the fuckers. The first two died without saying shit.'

'A couple of weeks? And how long was I gone before?' Ryan asked. The real question was "how long was I actually being tortured, because it felt like eternity" but he couldn't quite bring himself to phrase it so bluntly.

'We'd have noticed earlier, but you'd been talking about going up to Liberty City for a while. We thought at first that you'd just gone without saying,' Geoff started, looking drawn with guilt. 

'How long, Geoff?' Ryan asked flatly, his fingers curling hard enough to partially crush the bottle in his hand. 

'It's been about a month, buddy,' Geoff said softly.

Ryan sat back, trying to decide if that sounded like more or less time than he'd thought. Either way, it didn't seem right. In the end, he decided that no number would have - it could never do justice to the hell he had experienced.

They sat in silence for a long while, just the sound of the engine and the tires on smooth asphalt keeping them company. It wasn't the desert wind and his own failing breaths, so any noise was fine by Ryan. He'd got used to not talking, but he could tell his silence was wearing on the others. 

He tried to think of something else to say, something innocuous to ask about their activities since he'd last seen them. There was nothing more to say about his own month other than a detailed description of how it had felt to die in agony over and over again, and he sure as shit wasn't ready for that conversation.

Eventually, he said, ‘How’s Flynt Coal?’

He had missed his cat just as much as his friends, and the only thing that would have made his rescue more perfect was if they had brought the little creature with them.

Jack smiled. ‘He’s had plenty of attention from us, but he missed you. Don’t expect to get a moment to yourself for a while.’

Ryan nodded. Honestly, the thought of constant company sounded more like a blessing than a burden.

'What's for dinner?' he asked, after a few more minutes of silence.

Jack and Geoff both chuckled, and Ryan mentally awarded himself points for normal human interaction.

'Your choice, man,' Jack said. 'For once I think even Gavin will eat what he's told.'

He hadn't even thought about food in weeks. Thirst had bothered him continuously, but he'd never lived long enough for hunger to register. It took a ridiculous amount of effort to consider and discard a dozen take-out options before he realised what he really wanted.

'Will you cook, Geoff?' he asked. 'I don't care what.'

'Hell yeah I will,' Geoff said at once. 'We haven't got any food in, we've all been a little busy looking for you, but I can get that fixed, hang on.'

Ryan nodded, grateful for Geoff's willingness despite the fact that they must all have had a rough time. He couldn't imagine the stress of one of the crew going missing the way he had.

He wrapped the blanket around his filthy, bloody body and leaned against the window, half-dozing as he listened to Geoff sending Kdin to restock the penthouse. He vaguely registered Michael requesting rice-krispie squares and Geoff starting an argument with Kdin over the best cut of steak before he fell asleep.

~

He didn't wake when Michael pulled into the underground garage, or when Jack and Michael carried him into the elevator and straight to his own room in the penthouse. He reasoned later that he hadn't actually slept in the past month, only been unconscious or dead. Neither one counted as restful, and it was hardly surprising that he slept for a solid fourteen hours. 

He stirred briefly when he felt a cool, wet nose against his throat, but when a soft, purring weight nestled against his chest he curled instinctively around Flynt Coal without ever fully waking.

He eventually woke to the smell of pancakes, his stomach growling fiercely at the promise of food. It was enough to send him lurching out of bed and down the hall, seeking breakfast and company.

All six of the core crew were sitting in the kitchen, eating a mountain of pancakes, eggs and bacon courtesy of Chef Ramsey. Gavin saw him first, looking up from his plate and letting out a shriek of horror. He went backwards off his chair, hitting the floor and scrambling away.

Ryan was downright offended at the reaction. He had been gone for a while, but Gavin shouldn't be so afraid to see him when he wasn't even trying to be frightening.

'Good morning to you too,' he said sniffily, striding forward to steal a piece of bacon off the abandoned plate.

The salty, savoury taste was a revelation, and he groaned in pleasure, righting Gavin's chair and dropping into it to properly attack the food. 

'Oy!' Gavin said from his position on the other side of the kitchen, but Ryan couldn't bring himself to care. The food tasted incredible, and he might actually stab anyone who tried to stop him from eating. Flynt Coal stalked in from the living room and jumped onto his lap, and he petted the cat with one hand and shovelled down food with the other.

He had devoured half a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes before he looked up and found the crew staring at him as though he was a ghost.

He swallowed with some difficulty. 'What?'

Lindsay unfroze first. 'Uh, Ryan, you still haven't washed yet.'

Ryan looked down at himself, and found that he was caked in filth and dried blood, still wearing the same pair of well-worn grey underwear. He must have looked like some kind of zombie staggering into the kitchen.

'Ohh, yeah, bath,' he said, and devoured another forkful of pancakes. 'It's on my to do list,' he promised, around the mouthful of food.

Ray put his head down on the table and laughed helplessly at Ryan, setting them all off. God, it was so good to hear them laugh again. Ryan wanted to wrap that laughter around himself and hold it forever.

Gavin came back to the table and sat in the empty space, helping himself to a fresh serving of breakfast and whining about Ryan stealing his knife and fork.

'Shut the fuck up, Gavin, you eat off other people's plates all the time,' Michael said immediately, sparking off an argument over whether they all already had each others germs from living together or not.

Ryan just ate and let it wash over him, familiar voices helping to fill a little of the aching silence that had grown inside him.

Geoff let him eat until he slowed down to picking at his eggs, then gestured him imperiously toward his room.

'You've eaten, now get the fuck out of my kitchen and get clean. Jesus, you stink!'

Ryan wondered if their frequent use of the word Jesus was always going to bring a flash of horror, but he said nothing, only nodding and nudging Flynt Coal off his lap so he could go and wash.

The pounding water was like nothing he had experienced in the desert, and he stood in the spray for a long time after he had scrubbed himself clean, thankful for their luxurious accommodation in a way that he rarely had been before. He could stay in the shower all day and the water would never run out, never run cold. It was genuinely tempting, but Jack came knocking before he could wrinkle too badly.

She didn't leave even as he got dressed, pulling on jeans and a soft shirt with a small frisson of pleasure at the feeling of fabric on his skin. It seemed that it would be a long time before simple things stopped seeming like miracles.

It might be even longer before his friends allowed him to be alone again. He didn't leave the apartment for days, and there was never a moment when he was on his own. His cat was almost constantly with him, rumbling purrs helping to fill the quiet, and his human friends were equally omnipresent. 

He would have resented it once, but for the time being it was exactly what he needed. He could never handle silence, and even if the noise was only someone else breathing, deep and easy, it helped. Anything helped that wasn’t struggling breath and the hollow howl of the desert wind. 

Even sleeping on the sofa with the others crashed out around him got too quiet some nights, and he would wake them with pained whining and the gasps of a dying man, taking a long time to calm down when they managed to wake him. He spent hours staring out at the city, Flynt Coal in his lap, fingers working over black fur helping to remind him that his hands were his own again.

They didn't expect him to be alright, or certainly not for a while, and Ryan was grateful for their understanding. Geoff mentioned casually that there were plans in place to destroy the Vagos for good, but it was up to Ryan when it happened. They would wait for him to be ready. Ryan thanked him, but knew he wasn't going to be fit for that kind of job for a long while.

In the meantime, he spent a lot of time with Ray, who had always been fond of lurking around indoors, and his easy company helped while away the days with games and quiet conversation.

He didn't set foot outside for nearly two weeks after his return, and the first sight of the wide blue sky overhead almost sent him running right back indoors. He stood on the sidewalk focusing on his unrestricted breathing and the solid ground underfoot for a long time, carefully controlling the reaction. 

Jack waited patiently, car keys jingling in her hand, providing a noise that had no place in the desert inside Ryan's head. When he was sure he could stand it, he made himself stare up at the empty blue sky, letting himself learn that the open space wasn't a threat.

When he finally felt ready he looked back at Jack and smiled. 'Thanks for waiting.'

Jack grinned. 'No problem, man. I wish it was that easy to get Ray outside.'

Ryan laughed aloud, following her to her favourite blue supercar. They burned rubber up the street, racing other cars between the lights. They spent all afternoon driving just for the pleasure of it, switching out as they criss-crossed Los Santos and wound through the Vinewood Hills, classic rock blaring on the radio as the engine roared. It was the furthest possible thing from silence and stillness and Ryan loved it.

It took a while for it to stop feeling like a battle, but after that first time it was easier to go outside. It might take a very long time for Ryan to regain his love of solitary walks, if he ever did, but in the meantime at least he wasn't caged in.

He took to going on grocery runs with Gavin or Geoff, doing simple domestic things that exposed him to people again, always with at least one of his friends at his side. He wasn't going to be isolated and taken again, they would make sure of it. 

It was frustrating to have to relearn his own life, but he was grateful for the understanding of his friends. So many crews would have dropped him, useless as he was to their operations, but not the Fake AH. Even before they had learned of their immortality they had always been closer than that, and stronger for it.

He had several very serious conversations with the others about what being immortal could mean. They had never really considered the ways in which it made them uniquely vulnerable, but Ryan would never forget again. If they were captured, dropped into the depths of the ocean, left somehow unable to free themselves, they had to have a way out. Ryan was adamant about it, not willing to ever see one of them go through torment like his own.

It took considerable brainstorming to come up with solutions when death wasn't an option. In the end, Gavin and Ryan programmed a beacon system with multiple backups. Their clothes, their weapons, their cars, all of them would carry GPS locators that the rest of the crew could find if they were missing. None of them would ever be left to suffer for as long as Ryan had. 

And as a final measure, in case all the rest were stripped away, they had tiny beacons planted under their own skin. Even Flynt Coal got a beacon of his own, hissing madly when it was implanted, but forgiving them quickly when they offered him fish in apology.

'Even if we have to get them redone after every time Michael blows our asses up, I think we can afford it,' Geoff joked, rubbing at his tender backside where his beacon had been implanted.

'See if I make explosives for you next time you want to blow up a vault,' Michael huffed, accepting his own beacon with a great deal more stoicism.

'Aww, don't be like that, buddy. Your explosives are the best, the prettiest, the only ones I ever want to be blown up by,' Geoff wheedled, keeping up the act until Michael laughed and flipped him off.

~

They were unloading groceries from the Roosevelt after a trip to the store, months after Ryan's rescue, when he found a grim souvenir tucked into the back corner of the trunk. The crown of razors, still stained rusty brown with Ryan's blood. 

His stomach dropped at the sight of it, but he couldn't resist the urge to touch, to pick it up. He'd never actually got to handle the thing, only had it forced onto his head by his enemies, and pulled free by his friends.

Gavin paused with his arms full of brown bags, watching his face anxiously. 

'Ray picked it up. Michael almost punched him when he put it in the car, but he just said you might want it later.'

Ryan's heart swelled with gratitude for Ray's perceptiveness.

'He knows me well,' he said, turning the crown over in his hands, the seeds of an idea forming. He put it back for the moment, trading it for a stack of Ray's terrible frozen pizzas, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he came back for it.

~

When the Fake AH Crew went out in force a few days later, and permanently wiped the Vagos off the map, Ryan went unmasked. He let them see his face, just as he had on the day they had been foolish enough to take him, and on his brow rested a crown of razors. 

Careful grinding had removed the inward-facing blades, letting him wear the symbol of his captivity without pain. It would be a long time before he found the rest of his memories so easy to bear, but standing shoulder to shoulder with his loyal friends and watching his enemies flee in terror felt like a start.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been enjoying dropping snippets of angst into people's tumblr inboxes and running away, but this one needed to be a fair bit longer to have any hope to doing it justice.  
> Happy Easter, I guess?


End file.
